


Sweet dreams (are made of these)

by darkandstormyslash



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dream Sex, Dubious Consent, F/M, Het and Slash, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Spanking, Threesome - F/M/M, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-07-14 02:30:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7149023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkandstormyslash/pseuds/darkandstormyslash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sleep may come hard in Westeros, but dirty dreams come easy. A selection of characters getting hot and sticky while asleep.<br/>Chapter One: Tormund dreams of marriage and sex with beautiful Southerners<br/>Chapter Two: Bronn dreams of better things<br/>Chapter Three: Euron Greyjoy dreams of his golden Queen<br/>Chapter Four: Gendry Waters is freezing cold and gets a helping hand<br/>Chapter Five: Loras dreams of being beaten by Sandor Clegane</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tormund

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for this chapter: het sex, threesomes, blowjob, marriage

Tormund dreams he’s back on the right side of the wall. The Northern side. _His_ side. Mance Rayder is still alive, sitting on a throne carved of withered wood in the centre of the camp, with Tormund sitting lower by his side.

And _she_ strides forward.

Tall, powerful, beautiful, the woman from the South. Her skin is pale, her hair flaxen. She walks in with a hand on her sword, her eyes blue like the seas in the South, her cheeks reddened by the wind.

“Why are you here?” Mance asks.

The words she speaks aren’t important, but Tormund drinks in the sound of her voice. Powerful, low and broad. This is a woman who gets what she wants and if she doesn’t get it, she makes it what she wants. She’s here to arrange a peace on either side of the wall. To formalise the arrangement, she will take a husband from the men of the North.

Her eyes glance disdainfully around the room until she finally points at Tormund.

“That one. That one will do.”

The blood rushes downwards, and Tormund moans gently in his sleep.

* * *

They’re on a heap of furs now, married already because his dream cannot wait through a wedding ceremony. She tugs the clothes away from him and allows him to undo hers. He takes off her armour (never before has he wanted so much to unbuckle armour!) feeling the taught muscles of her body, the scars and scrapes from a life spent fighting. Her legs are long and strong and lie over his, pale and speckled with downy blond hair. He grabs at her in a frenzy and she holds him firm and kisses him hard.

He gapes and shakes and feels a wet warmth on his cock. He pulls away from her startled, and looks down. Between his legs, long-lashed and dark-haired, is the Southern boy, Jon Snow, pink full lips and a clever little tongue.

“That’s just something I bought with me.” Brienne says impatiently. “To keep you happy. You’ll like him.”

Tormund lets one hand snake down to tangle in Jon’s hair, encouraging him to bob back down again. Brienne grabs the rest of his body. His tongue rasps over her skin, his fingers slid between her legs. She tips her head back and makes a guttural moan and Tormund is gasping and babbling promises: he will show her the North, he will _give_ her the North, he will go and fight a bear and bring its bones back to her and then use those bones to fight _another_ bear, he will bring her _all_ the bears, he will cover the North in bear skins and lay her down upon them.

Jon’s obliging tongue moves down to kiss at his thighs to allow Brienne to straddle him. She takes him hard and long, riding him while he gasps and calls her name. He isn’t sure where exactly Jon is – this dream seems to have far more smooth Southern limbs flying around than is strictly realistic, but he’s got a hand clamped on the boy’s arse for a slap and squeeze as Brienne tosses her head back and howls like the dangerous, beautiful warrior she is.

The furs envelop them all. They both give Jon Snow’s pouty soft lips a kiss and a nibble, and then he fades away, leaving Tormund tangled up in long legs and pale tits and strong arms. She murmurs his name for the first time, and he kisses her neck until she grumbles that his beard tickles. His arms wrap around her waist, and he moans her name back.

* * *

When he wakes, he’s in a bed on the wrong side of the wall, Mance is dead, his beauty has ridden off, and the furs are sticky between his legs. He pushes them off with a grunt, and goes to break the ice in the washbasin.


	2. Bronn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bronn is a simple man, with fairly simple dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: nudity, dubcon, sex with a prisoner, unrealistic dream buggery.  
> Any other characters you'd like dreams for?

Bronn's slept in worse places than a damp tent by a besieged castle, but it's still not the most comfortable bunk. Still, it's a place to lay his head, and at least when he dreams, he's back in King's Landing.

Not in his old quarters he was give by Tyrion though. Oh no, in this dream he's sitting on the Iron Throne. More accurately, _lounging_  on the Iron Throne, one leg over the armrest, a rakishly angled crown on his head. At his feet are tributes from the seven kingdoms; gold and jewels piled high. On either side of the throne are beautiful noblewomen in rich, fine clothes, all vying to be crowned queen.

He winks at them roguishly. They titter and swoon and some of them undo their bodices, sliding them down to reveal soft round breasts and hard pink little tits. Fucking gorgeous.

The door slams open at the other end of the room and Bronn sits upright, giving a broad grin as he sees the man being dragged into the throneroom. His clothes are torn, his finery stripped away, his blond hair streaked with grime, and a pretty little bruise blotches that handsome carved jaw. Bronn knows who it is instantly.

Jaime fucking Lannister.

Jaime struggles and fights all the way, until a big burly Kingsguard knocks him sideways. The men fling him down in front of the throne and Bronn stares down at him. "What a state you're in."

Jaime spits at him. Bronn tuts and shakes his head.

"Now, now, none of that." Bronn slides his legs apart and the girls all titter at Jaime in a heap on the floor. The whole of the seven Kingdoms have eyes and ears at court, everyone is watching this: Jaime debased while Bronn lords it up, "A one-handed man with no lands or title shouldn't talk that way to a King."

Anger flashes in Jaime's eyes and he surges forward. The Kingsguard knock him back and Bronn laughs. His Kingsguard don't wear silly white cloaks, they wear dark boiled leather. Practical clothing, fighter's clothing.

Bronn leans forward and pats Jaime's bruised cheek. "For starters, Jaime Lannister, you can suck my cock."

The men drag him forward, and Bronn undoes the front of his britches. A few more of the noble ladies faint. Jaime snarls and snaps and growls at him, "I'll bite it off. I've got nothing left to lose."

Bronn's eyebrows raise higher. He can think of a good few parts of Jaime that the man still has left to loose, but he doesn't trust his precious cock in such a dangerous place. He leans back in the throne and sighs, "Fine..." and then as a heartbeat of hope appears in Jaime's eyes, "I'll just have to find somewhere to stick it that doesn't have teeth..."

He waves his hand, the Kingsguard roughly flip Jaime around and tug his clothes out the way. Jaime yelps and struggles. Bronn is hard as a rock, and he tugs it twice, tells the rest of the girls to get their tits out, braces himself against the throne and thrusts forward hard.

And because it's a dream, Jaime is wet and slick and tight as a cunt in heat and Bronn grunts and groans as he pounds down. Jaime is moaning and gasping and calling him King, the girls are all practically naked now, giggling and touching each other, while Bronn is on the Iron Throne, knee deep in gold and balls deep in Jaime Lannister.

He wakes as he cums, with a grunt and a gasp. Jamie's lying on the other side of the tent, staring at the ceiling wide awake, and he curls his lip as Bronn makes a mess all over his bedroll.

"Do you _have_ to do that here?"

Bronn gives him a wide smug smile, rolls over, and goes back to sleep.


	3. Euron Greyjoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Euron dreams of his Queen. No real warnings, just a bit of swearing and general Euron-ness.
> 
> This almost turned out identical to Bronn's dream. Oh Jamie Lannister, your despair is just too entertaining.

Euron Greyjoy doesn’t dream of being on the Iron Throne, he dreams of standing next to it.

His _wife_ is on the Iron Throne; beautiful, golden and shining. She wears a crown of gold and iron, and he wears one of salt and sea. She is the most beautiful woman in Westeros, and she smiles, and rules, and kills.

The Queen sleeps with him, and him alone, but she also understands that when he travels, he dallies. He always makes it up to her, bringing her the most beautiful and exotic presents from around the seas. Gowns of silk and pearl, necklaces of gold and precious stones, the severed heads of her enemies, and new kingdoms to throw at her feet.

She loves him, she _adores_ him, and the angry-sex he gets every time he returns with a whore’s perfume on his clothes is well worth it. She practically throws him against the wall, all snarls and struggles as he holds her still and kisses her all over until she  _stops_ struggling. She moans and bends into him, body pressing against his, and he knows by the time he's finished, she'll forgive him anything.

There’s a cage in the corner of the throne room. It holds her brother, along with little Theon, because killing Theon would be too much of a kindness and Euron gets a kick out of keeping Balon’s son alive. They’re fed semi-regularly, and sometimes when he comes down in the morning he sees them both curled up together. Bits of limbs and bits of men, holding each other close for comfort. He can see the hate shining in Jamie Lannister’s eyes, and he wonders if Jamie knows that hate is all that’s keeping them both alive. The minute Jamie goes dull and lifeless, Euron will kill him. It’ll be boring.

He might even let Cersei kill him. She’ll be ready to do it, someday.

There’s no hurry.

King’s Landing is hers, because it must be, and the damn lion motifs crawl around everywhere she can fit them and hang from the banners. The North is his, because he knows his brothers always wanted it. The Ironborn rule Winterfell, and raid the Greenlands at will. There’s not enough food to last everyone through the winter, but why should he care? There’s enough food in King’s Landing for him and his Queen and everyone else, as far as Euron Greyjoy is concerned, can go fuck themselves. Or eat each other.

Quite possibly both.

And when he awakes on the Silence, with his captives in the hold and King’s Landing in view on the horizon, Euron knows this isn’t just a dream. It’s his future, growing stronger in his mind, and it’s so close he can almost _taste_ it.


	4. Gendry Waters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for season 7 episode 6 "Beyond the wall". Warnings for biting, masturbation, dubious sleeping-bag practices.  
> Gendry/Hound - because someone needs to write for this ship!

It's unspeakably cold up north, colder than Gendry ever knew a place could be. The snow is fresh and exciting at first, and then it very quickly becomes just cold and wet at the same time. The stuff gets everywhere; into his clothes, even in his hair, and wherever it touches skin it melts and leaves him cold and damp. 

Nights are the worst. At least during the day he can move, and complain to Jon (albeit quietly so the others don't hear). At night he's just shivering alone under furs that never get warm. They have a makeshift cover that can't be called a tent but does keep the worst of the blizzards out, but it does nothing for the cold, and even wrapped in furs Gendry can feel it seeping into the core of his body. He thinks his fingers might be numb.

"Fucks sake, how am I meant to sleep with your teeth chattering?" Sandor Clegane grumbles from next to him.

"It's  _cold_." Gendry hisses miserably back.

There's a shifting sound as Clegane rolls over, "Do you not know how to warm up a sleeping bag?"

 _Obviously I don't,_ Gendry wants to snap at him, but he's not about to. He's the youngest one on this journey, and unlike Jon he hasn't proved himself capable yet. Continuously complaining about the cold isn't going to do much for his reputation as the soft young Southerner. 

"Have a wank." Clegane mutters, and Gendry's eyes widen. He half chokes, sure he must have misheard, but Clegane continues, "It'll get the blood moving round you, and any heat you give off will be trapped under the furs. Have a wank and get to sleep, just make sure it's not my name you call out when you do or I'll leave you here in the snow."

He must be joking, Gendry is sure of it. He must be, and they'll all wait to see if Gendry believes it and make fun of him when he does. On the other hand, if he does nothing he's quite possibly going to freeze to death.

Gendry lets his hand slide down under his belt and  _fuck, fuck, fuck_ it's cold. His fingers are half numb and he bites his lip to stop himself gasping at the sensation. His toes wriggle inside his boots, and damn him but Clegane is right, it is making him warmer. Gendry's not about to spill all over the inside of the sleeping bag, but when he closes his eyes and thinks of the old brothels (never the same after Baelish left) it gets him semi-hard and he can feel the warmth spreading through him. As soon as he's warm, his eyelids start to droop and he falls asleep with his hand still wrapped around his cock.

Which is why, he supposes, he has such an interesting dream...

He's just dipping down under into sleep, which is why he can hear Clegane breathing from next to him but his mind is also supplying the sounds of Clegane moving closer. In a dream, and he desperately hopes it's a dream, Clegane's arms are wrapping around him, under the furs, sliding down to where his own hand is attempting the job. One big hand wraps around his cock, and the warmth of Clegane is at his back and Gendry gives a gasping little groan.

"Can't do anything for yourself can you?" Clegane grumbles and Gendry gives a huff.

"Didn't ask you to help."

"Shut up, last thing we need is that Ginger Cunt hearing." Clegane's hand knows what it's doing, sure enough, and Gendry is hard and thrusting gently into it. "Especially after you've been pouting prettily at him all day."

"I don't  _pout_." 

Clegane bites into his shoulder in response and Gendry arches back, eyes fluttering closed, his arms tensing around the furs, pressing in against Clegane's body spooned around him. It isn't that Gendry feels  _weak_ exactly, but Clegane is just so much  _bigger_. He's been fed, trained and brought up for size and strength, whereas Gendry has just been dragged up in flea-bottom then thrown into a forge. It seems unfair, but Gendry isn't in a state to think it through, not as the hand on his cock moves faster and suddenly there's a hand at his back as well.

"Keep still".

Gendry almost swallows his tongue as the back of his trousers is roughly tugged down, one leg kicking back slightly against the weight that holds him, "W-wait, shouldn't we - just."

"Calm the fuck down, I'm hardly going to bugger you here and now, am I?" Gendry can feel a hardness pressing up against the curve of his arse and gives a whine. "Just need a bit of skin, that's all."

Gendry, isn't reassured, particularly when Clegane bites down on his shoulder again and mutters, "Can't promise much if we're out here too much longer, mind."

The cock rubs against the small of his back, the hand against his own cock and Gendry groans, closing his eyes and humping backwards, feeling dimly that one favour deserves another. A rough tongue soothes over the aching bite on his shoulder, and Gendry feels himself wondering, vaguely, what this would feel like if it were Jon Snow wrapped around him rather than some damaged old knight. Would Jon's skin feel smoother? Would Jon's voice be gentler, instead of the rasping one currently grunting swearwords into his ear? What would Jon's hands feel like, wrapped around his cock? Would Jon want Gendry to call him King...

He cums with a gasp and a moan and after a few more moments of frantic humping feels a wetness against his back which makes him flush.

Clegane is surprisingly gentle as he pulls away. A rough piece of clothing, and Gendry doesn't even want to think which one, rubs against the sticky mess on his back, and then around the similar mess between his legs. A hand pets uncertainly at his hair and Clegane rolls back over. "That should warm you up."

It feels like he rolls off to sleep then, but Gendry knows that must be impossible because he was already asleep.

Gendry wakes the next morning to find he must have cum in his sleep. His shoulder is aching, probably from sleeping at an odd angle, and he certainly isn't about to take any of his clothes off to check if anything else is wrong with it. He can't even look at Clegane but thankfully, the man doesn't seem like he wants to look at Gendry either...


	5. Loras Tyrell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for male/male spanking, dubcon, attempted assault within a dream where the dreamer is kinda into it.  
> This chapter is set way back in season 2 during the battle of the five kings.

Loras has always thought that Renly should be king. Renly is clever, kind, thoughtful, charming and handsome; everything both his brothers are not. Renly has an enthusiasm and love that shines through the darkest moments, Renly can make men happy to die for him and glad to live under him. Renly on the Iron Throne would be a service for the whole realm.

He knows it to be true. What he doesn't know is quite why he's lying in Renly's bed, snug in Renly's tent, fighting Renly's war, and dreaming of Sandor Clegane.

Clegane. The King's dog. A man who is decidedly un-charming and brutish and has half of his face burnt off, while the other half suggests that it was never the best looking face to start with. In his dreams, Sandor is tall and towering, trapping Loras against the side of the stable with one broad arm.

"When I ask you to clean my fucking armour I expect it to be fucking clean when you finish with it."

"It's clean enough." Loras snaps.

That's all it takes, because clearly his subconscious isn't here for an arguement, it's here for something more. Clegane's eyes narrow and Loras makes a scramble towards the door. A scramble that gets him nowhere as a big hand closes around his upper arm and drags him back.

"I don't pay you to sit around blowing stable-boys." He's apparently Clegane's servant in this dream, although strangely enough he's still dressed in Baratheon livery. "Get your arse back here."

Clegane pins him to the side of the stable. Loras kicks and yelps as a hard hand works over the back of his trousers - firm hard smacks that he can _feel_  even in sleep. They burn into his skin, reminding him how strong Clegane actually is. He can feel the force of them, sending shivers right down his body which fuse at the base of his spine and shoot straight to his cock.

Clegane yanks his trousers down.

Loras makes one more effort to get away, tugging desperately at his trousers as he stumbles sideways, his smallclothes already tangled somewhere at his knees. He knows there's no way he can be seen outside the stable like this; base-arsed and all with Clegane's handprints outlined on his skin. Clegane seems to know it too because he just chuckles and grabs at a horse-brush lying against the side of the wall.

"Where do you think you're running to?"

Clegane lunges at him, Loras yells and dives at the door, and they end up tussling on the floor. He gets a few good hits in (and gods know what he's actually hitting but it must be something because he can feel the impact against his fists) and Clegane's swearing through a nose bubbling blood as he flips Loras over and raises the horsebrush high.

It hurts. It huuurts, seven gods it hurts and Loras shrieks and whimpers as the tough wood smacks repeatedly against the naked skin of his arse. He gets a few kicks out, but they only seem to make the situation worse as Clegane moves down to work over the back of his thighs. Loras has his cock in hand, tears in his eyes as he tugs it desperately, feeling the full weight of it swelling into his palm and knowing that, at least, is no dream. Clegane kicks his legs apart and Loras makes a horse sort of choking sound as he scrabbles against the floor.

He's never seen Clegane fully naked in real life, but in his dream the man is built like a stallion.

Clegane's hand closes across the burning skin of his arse, squeezing tight and pressing it sideways. As the blunt round head of Clegane's cock pushes up against his trembling arse Loras feels a pain, a splitting aching burn that makes him scream. The sound of his own scream is enough to drag him up into wakefulness - back to where he's tumbled up in a blanket with his knuckles bruised against the bedstead and his hard cock in his hand.

"Loras?" Renly is half-laughing, worried that the sound will bring people closer. "What in the realm where you dreaming about, you almost tore the bed apart?"

The pain has faded, leaving nothing but the tingle of memory and a deep aching need. Renly raises his hand to Loras's face to wipe at a strange tear, pausing as Loras grabs hard at his wrist.

"Renly Baratheon if you do not shut up and fuck me right now then I swear to you the _entire_  Tyrell army will be walking home tomorrow!"


End file.
